


A Broken Branch

by jezmyl



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Angst, Camp, Creepy, Horror, It's hard to explain, M/M, McLennon, Mild Cursing, Open ended, but not really McLennon, i guess, idk just read and you'll know, kinda major character death, know what im sayin, like it kinda makes you think, spoopy, without giving it away
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-25
Updated: 2016-11-25
Packaged: 2018-09-02 00:46:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8644771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jezmyl/pseuds/jezmyl
Summary: It was almost three in the morning, and most of the male campers would be asleep by now; but not John Lennon and his friends. The boys had set up a small fire pit in the woods when they had first arrived at Harmston Camp. “Hey lads, have you heard the story of the murder here?”	The fawn-brown haired John Lennon murmured, raising his brows at his friends. “Jus’ get on with it, Lennon.”	George mumbled, taking a long drag from the cigarette and then blowing it into John’s face, before handing it to him. “Well boys, buckle in!”	John cackled, taking the cigarette and dragging it before continuing.“The night was dark, and it was raining. It was two years ago, 1954.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I had lots of fun writing this story! It was something different, and I've always wanted to write something kinda spooky. Sorry that the summary is shite, but it's hard to summarize what happens without giving anything away. Hope you enjoy! Comments and feedback are appreciated!

It was almost three in the morning, and most of the male campers would be asleep by now; but not John Lennon and his friends. The boys had set up a small fire pit in the woods when they had first arrived at Harmston Camp. Surprisingly, nobody had noticed it-- or they hadn’t said anything about it at least. 

The pit itself wasn’t very deep, but still sufficed. It had a few rocks surrounding it, and a couple boxes keeping the flame going. 

“Hey lads, have you heard the story of the murder here?”

The fawn-brown haired John Lennon murmured, raising his brows at his friends. 

“The hell are you on about?”

One of the other kids, Pete, asked.

“You really wanna know, son?”

John said with a snort as Pete rolled his eyes and took a drag of one of the cigarette that was getting passed around. Their younger friend, George, had stolen half of a pack from one of the camp counselors. 

“Jus’ get on with it, Lennon.”

George mumbled, taking a long drag from the cigarette and then blowing it into John’s face, before handing it to him. 

“Well boys, buckle in!”

John cackled, taking the cigarette and dragging it before continuing.

“The night was dark, and it was raining. It was two years ago, 1954.”

\- -

Eyes open. Hazel hues surrounded by long lashes glancing around spastically. Dark brown, almost black, hair plastered to his fair skin. His neck ached, his breathing was heavy and ragged. Everything and nothing raced through his mind. He shouted out, but nothing was heard. He stood up and felt something tickle his bare feet. It wasn’t the blades of grass, it felt rougher. He looked down. Rope. 

Suddenly, memories flashed through his mind but nothing seemed to make sense. 

“Hello?”

His voice was hoarse and quiet, and he didn’t recognize it. His chest felt cold, and his ankles and calves were bare. He looked down at his shirt, a faded crimson red stained it’s grey color. He lifted his shirt away from his chest, and he didn’t feel the coldness there anymore. 

“Blood?”

There it was again. That voice he hated so much. It sounded weak and faltered even when he only said one word. 

Finally, he grabbed at the rope that hung at his feet. His hands followed it’s path up his body. He tugged at it and his body lunged forwards. He continued to trail his hands up his body, and they stopped once they reached his neck. As he realized the rope was tied around his neck, he felt his eyes glaze over. More memories of thrashing and flowing tears flashed through his mind. He understood now. 

“H-He des _ er _ ved it.”

He said to himself, his voice cracking on the ‘er’ of ‘deserved.’ He stood still for a second, looking around at his surroundings. He looked directly above himself and saw a broken tree branch. He looked around for the other half that should’ve been on the ground. Strangely enough, it wasn’t. He looked around for any signs of human presence. He found nothing but woods and falling leaves and- well- himself. 

“H _ e _ llo?”

He cringed as his voice cracked once more. He whipped his head, startled, as he heard shuffling behind a tree. 

“Hell _ o _ ?”

He called out, his voice seeming to break on a vowel every time he spoke. God he hated it.

The shuffling turned into stomping, and a person in a dark grey hoodie and baggy jeans emerged. 

“Hello? I’m--”

He called out to the stranger, then stopped abruptly.

“Who  _ a _ m I?”

Another few memories came back and dug into his brain. He shook his head, trying to get rid of the gorey images. Although, one of them, had an image of him, with a name sewn into his shirt. He gasped loudly, trying to regain his breath after the things he’d seen.

“I-I’m Paul!”

He called out to the hooded stranger, to which he didn’t respond.

“P _ a _ ul Mc-McCartn _ e _ y!”

The hooded stranger still said nothing, continuing on his path. He cracked his neck, to which Paul winced at. He proceeded to crack his knuckles and back. Every noise making Paul cringe and take a step back. Paul looked down at the rope that hung from him, slowly and carefully unravelling it from his neck. He proceeded to throw it onto the ground and kick it aside.

All of a sudden, Paul’s eyes lit up as he began to hear laughter and male voices. He quickly looked around, glancing back to the hooded person. Paul decided to follow him, thinking he’d catch up to him and ask where civilization was. 

Paul walked, and the more he followed behind the man, the louder the voices got. Paul supposed the man was a buddy of theirs. 

Although, this thought was soon discarded when he saw the blade of a knife poke out from the man’s sleeve. Paul’s eyes widened and his mind raced. His heartbeat picked up and he panicked.  Paul knew he had two options: A. Run to alert the other kids, or B. Confront the man himself. Paul knew he’d never be able to take someone with a knife and he also was aching all over. He knew he couldn’t just stand there, so, he toughened it out and broke into a sprint. 

His bare feet made loud slapping noises against the freshly dewed grass. All sounds were loud in Paul’s mind; his heartbeat, his heavy breathing, his grunting every time he registered his aching neck. He thought for sure that the man would hear him, but instead the hooded stranger kept walking. 

Paul kept running, he had to, he needed to warn the others. He knew he just had to keep going, but that was easier said than done. Paul eventually stumbled and fell into the grass, screaming out in pain as his face collided with the ground, and his ankle contorted. He buried his face in the grass and tried to prevent the tears from spilling over. Paul’s fists clenched and unclenched as he struggled to get back up. As soon as he looked up and saw the hooded man pull out a noose, he knew he had to push through. 

“H-Hey!”

He turned and yelled at the hooded man. The man didn’t give any indication of recognition, and continued to walk. Paul growled as he eventually pushed himself up and stood on his bare feet. He looked around, taking in a heavy breath. He felt a cold, wet pool of liquid under his foot and looked down. 

“Blood.”

His hoarse voice grumbled out. Paul then looked beside his foot, and noticed a small pocket knife. 

“I must h-have st _ ep _ ped…”

Paul trailed off, then slowly bent down and picked it up. His breath hitched as he glanced at the mystery man. He gulped as he felt his stomach churn and something trying to come up. He looked behind him one last time before sprinting forwards once more. Now he was armed, and maybe the others would take him seriously. Of course he didn’t want to harm anyone in any way-- that’s what he was trying to prevent! Paul just thought that maybe if it looked like he was trying to defend himself, they’d believe him. 

Paul stopped a few feet before the bonfire. Most of the kids looked to be a year or two older than him- with the exception of two. Paul smiled, watching the kids look to one of the older kids, intrigued. 

He then felt his breathing get caught in his throat as he looked at their shirts. They were a dull green color, and had the words, ‘ _ Harmston Camp’  _ written on them. Paul looked down at his own shirt. It had the same words, but the color was a faded grey that was stained by his red blood. 

Upon remembering the killer behind him, he shook his head and ran up behind the teen who was talking. The kid had light brown hair that was a little curly and was styled in a typical greaser fashion. He wore a black leather jacket over his shirt, and drainpipe jeans. 

“H _ ey _ ! Guys!”

He exclaimed, waving his arms frantically. 

“ _ Li _ sten to m _ e _ !”

\- -

John recounted the ‘scary’ tale his aunt had told him. The others seemed to be intrigued immensely, which surprised John. He had thought for sure the guys would’ve poked fun at him for wanting to tell stories around a campfire. Although John guessed he must’ve been using a good choice of words, considering the gaping mouths and wide eyes.

“Then, the kid got his revenge with a simple pocket knife.”

“Revenge?”

George questioned with a smirk.

“Yeah, he fuckin’  _ murdered  _ his  _ murderer _ !”

“What a cliche.”

George mumbled, rolling his eyes.

“Some say, that some of the kids that go missing here are actually his victims. They say he wants company in his life stuck between hell and heaven.”

George snorted.

“Some say, he’s still  _ HERE!” _

\- -  

Paul’s hazel eyes glanced back and forth as he listened to the man yell. He watched as the man in the hood got closer and called out.

“H _ ey _ st _ op _ !”

He yelled, his voice still cracking even after all the previous yelling he’d done. Paul ran over to the mysterious man, about to attack. Suddenly, the man screamed loudly and the other kids in front of him screamed and turned to look at their attacker. The killer took his hood down and began to laugh. The other kids began to either frown and pout or laugh along with him. The teen who had been telling the story stood up and cackled.

“You really believed--! Nice job, Stu, you make one mean ghost.”

“Thanks John, maybe I’ll be a star!”

The storyteller, known as John, laughed along with the other kid, but then it died down to chuckling as the others began to nag him and the other kid, Stu. 

Paul stood, his mouth agape and knife loosely in his hand. He stared at the Stu kid, wide eyed. He didn’t understand. What happened?

The other kids started talking to each other, and John began to look around. Paul stood a few feet away from Stu and just couldn’t grasp what was happening. Why didn’t anyone listen to him? Why were they laughing? Why was the killer, Stu, a buddy to them?

Paul then turned his head to look at John, and his eyes started to water. He clenched his fists in an attempt to stop the tears from flowing. 

All at once, John locked eyes with him, and Paul froze. Could John see him? Could John hear him? Paul completely forgot about the small- but sharp- knife in his hand as he stared, stunned.

\- -

John chuckled, glad the whole plan had gone as smoothly as intended. He looked around the dark, dense woods, the only light coming from their fire. He tried to deem if it was too early to sneak back when movement caught his eye. He looked at Stu, who was talking to Pete about how ‘totally not nerve-wracking’ it’d been to go out in the woods alone. 

John raised a brow, searching for any other campers that were outside. He needed to make sure they wouldn’t snitch on them.

Then, he saw it. 

There was a boy standing a few feet behind Stu. He was covered in blood stains and dirt, and his hair was a complete mess. He had wide eyes and a knife in hand. John squinted through his glasses and noticed rug-burn marks around his neck. He also took notice of how his shirt was a dull grey version of theirs. His knees were scraped and bloody, his shorts ripped and grime-covered. 

John gulped deeply, and stared at the younger boy with wide eyes. And then, the boy started back at him. Both didn’t know what to do. 

“Ey, John?”

“Y-Yeah?”

Even when Stu tried talking to him, John didn’t dare take his eyes off of the boy. Was he afraid of the boy? Or afraid he’d leave? John didn’t know.

“How did that story end anyways?”

Stuart asked, having not heard the entire thing, only up to the part where he was supposed to jump out. 

“Well, the boy basically got murdered, and his soul bounced back from heaven to hell. He got stuck on Earth and used that to his advantage to find his murderer and kill him.”

John said, extremely slowly.

“Yeh, and John said the boy might still be here murderin’ little kids for fun.”

George chimed in, John slowly nodding. Stu raised a brow and looked to where John was staring. Nothing.

“You okay, mate?”

He asked, looking at John, concerned.

“Yeah, just thought I heard someone.”

John replied simply in a hushed voice.

“Hey! Wh-who are you?”

\- -

Paul kept his eyes locked with John’s. He knew the other saw him now, because he wouldn’t look away. Paul listened to John talk to Stu and another boy, and what they were saying felt familiar. 

He jumped when he heard John call for him. Paul raised the pocket knife in a feeble attempt to defend himself against the older teen.

Paul saw John take a startled step back at that, and then narrow his eyes. 

“That’s how it ends?”

The Stu boy asked, John nodding.

“Yeah, that’s how it ends.”

Then black.

\- -

John’s eyes widened as he saw the boy stumble after he finished his sentence in response to Stu. The boy then proceeded to fall and disappear. John’s eyes widened, and he tried to tell himself to stay put, but he just couldn’t resist the curiosity. He ran over to the spot behind Stu where he saw the boy. He looked around, then fell to his knees and searched around in the grass. He pricked his finger on something sharp, and then felt a handle beneath his palm. He grabbed it and walked back to the fire. 

It was the pocket knife. 

“Did you know that was there, John?”

He heard Pete ask from somewhere behind him. Honestly, John didn’t know how to answer that. Instead, he closed the blade to be concealed in the sheath and slid it into his pocket.

“I think we should go, lads. Something doesn’t seem right.”

John said, not looking at anyone as he grabbed a stick and let the fire consume the tip of it slowly. 

“Aw, is wittle Johnny paranoid of the hanged boy?”

John shot a glare to Stu and Stu took a step back at the intensity.

“Okay, okay, we’re going.”

Stu said, gesturing for the others to follow.

As soon as John snuck back inside his and George’s cabin, he began to shiver. George asked him what was wrong a few times, but John simply ignored him.

George wouldn’t believe John.

\- -

John sat in the bedroom of his friend Ringo’s house. It was getting pretty late and George and Stu were coming eventually, but John had spent the night previously so it was just them two.

“You seem spooked, John. Something on your mind?”

Ringo asked considerately, adjusting the collar of his striped shirt. John was hesitant to answer, but slowly nodded anyways.

“Yanno the camp that happens far out?”

“You mean Harmston?”

“Yeah.”

John nodded, continuing to stare at the floorboards.

“I meant to go to that with you guys this year, but my mum said I couldn’t. ‘Twas sick, yanno?”

John nodded and the proceeded with his story.

“Well, do you know about the murder that happened there two years ago?”

“Nein.”

Ringo replied, raising a brow in curiosity. 

“Well, it was in 1954. Raining, dark and cold day.”

\- -

Eyes open. Frantic and scrambled thoughts, hazel eyes, an aching neck, a rough object brushing his feet and chest. Trees, lots of them. A dense forest. A small orange flickering light. Far away. After a few minutes of heavy breathing and panicked glancing, he looked down. A rope. He looked up.

A broken branch.


End file.
